Life Goes On
by Rolling Hannah
Summary: A series of post-manga oneshots revolving around Soul and Maka's life after the Kishin's defeat. No updating schedule. Updated randomly. Cover photo by nau on Pixiv.
1. Chapter 1

**Genre:** Mostly friendship, some romance.

**Warning: Very drabbly and not organized.**

* * *

This is not what Soul expected after coming home from the convenience store.

Maka was in his room, excitedly rummaging through some old boxes he assumed had come from his closet.

The Death Scythe sighed, "Maka. What the hell are you doing?"

He wasn't angry, and she knew that.

Soul was simply somewhat frustrated with the fact that Maka was always looking through old stuff lately.

Since when was she so sentimental?

"Just looking."

_Yeah... Right._

She'd probably pull out some old photo of them that had been taken by a classmate without their knowledge. Or an old pair of socks. She would then proceed to say "Soul! You wore these on our fourth mission!"

She had yet to actually pull out something that was really that important to either of them.

But Maka had begun to appreciate their memories a lot more.

He sighed again and walked over to her position in front of the large cardboard box, sitting cross-legged and resting his chin on his palm.

He had noticed when he walked in that she had her hair down, and was wearing a t-shirt of his, along with a pair of his sweatpants. They were rolled up several times to compensate for her shorter legs.

He had been looking for those for ages.

"Quit stealing my stuff when you don't have any clean pajamas, weirdo."

The meister suddenly quit digging and turned around to face him, an annoyed expression on her face.

"Don't be so stingy!" She replied, jabbing him in the shoulder, "You've got plenty of clothes."

Her eyes said that he wasn't winning this argument.

"Plus they're really comfortable..." She pulled the collar up over her face, "And they smell like you too."

Soul rolled his eyes, unseen by her.

Since when was his meister so sentimental?

When he looked back at her, she was already back to digging through the box. He turned his attention to the walls, suddenly really interested in them.

Soul didn't look back at her until she let out a gasp and waved something ratty in his face.

It was an old, stretchy loop of fabric, with small tears around the edges. Only upon further inspection that he realized that it was...

His old headband.

The patches on it were still there, though some of the seams had popped and ripped.

He remembered when he had bought the cheap headband not long after they had become partners.

He remembered the day Maka had come home holding two patches she had found at a small store in town. One bearing the word "soul" and the other with their class logo.

At first he had rejected the idea that she should attach them to his headband, saying how uncool it would be. But after a lot of pouting and fussing he finally consented.

She had gone to the local library and checked out any books she could find on sewing.

And after many tangled threads and pricked fingers she had woken him up one morning, dangling the newly decorated headband in front of his face — a lot like she was now.

He had worn the headband everyday. And though he would never have told her, he secretly adored his personalized accessory.

He wore it until it had begun to tear. Afraid of ruining the gift, he had stored it away along with—

His old coat.

Maka had just pulled it out of the box as well, leaving the headband in his lap.

His meister stroked the small rips and tears that resulted from everything from battles to getting the sleeve caught on something.

She studied the biggest one the longest. A long diagonal tear across the front, messily patched together.

Her sewing skills were limited, but she had done her best to patch up his favorite jacket. After she had removed the bloody stains, of course.

He could tell that she wore a sad expression without even seeing her face. The certain way her shoulders drooped, along with the fact that her hand was holding the fabric unusually tight with her fingers.

He could feel it in her soul, too. But he really didn't need that to be able to tell, either.

"That was a long time ago, Maka. It's-"

"In the past... I know, Soul."

They really did know each other.

"You liked this jacket a lot." She smiled sadly, "You wore it everyday... Why did you trade it for that black one anyway?"

He poked the side of her head, "Because you always looked so sad when I put it on every morning."

"Oh... I'm sorry." Maka hugged the old jacket to her.

Crap.

He always ended up making her feel worse.

"It's really soft, you know."

She was rubbing her face against the worn fabric.

Maka felt her weapon's arms wrap loosely around her shoulders. Trying to comfort her with a hug, she assumed.

He wasn't really a touchy person. So she knew he really wanted her to feel better.

She felt the jacket being gently taken from her grasp, only to land on her shoulders.

Maka turned to look at him, green eyes filled with confusion.

The Death Scythe smirked, "It's too small for me now. So you can hang onto it if you want."

She smiled at him, understanding.

"Right."

* * *

That night, with Soul sprawled out on his bed, you could see his old headband laid across his nightstand. Next to it was a small frame containing a photo of him and Maka on the day he came a death scythe, their white Spartoi uniforms crisp and new.

And in the next room lay Maka asleep, holding Soul's old jacket to her like one might hold a stuffed animal.

Soul wasn't really one to hold onto memories. But he was sure he should hold onto the ones containing his meister.

She had stopped him from running away, after all.

But one question still plagued him. Why was Maka so sentimental over everything?

Oh well, it didn't matter.


	2. We Match

**Genre:** Friendship, Romance, Hurt/Comfort

**T for mild gore**

* * *

Blood. Scrapes. Bruises. Cuts.

That's all Soul say underneath the rips in his meister's once-white uniform. It was now covered in blood from her wounds, along with mud and dirt in some places.

Four long gashes on her right side, beneath her rib cage. Shallow, but still somewhat bleeding.

She also had a small cut in the center of her forehead, a thin stream of blood running over her nose and near her mouth.

Her green eyes were clenched shut in pain, unshed tears collecting under her lashes.

If only he could run faster.

The soul they were sent to hunt had only been a bit outside the city limits in the desert, but the walk home was agonizing.

With one arm wrapped around her legs and the other around her shoulders—being careful of her torso—he was trudging uphill through town towards their apartment complex. He knew enough about first-aid to dress her wounds. But he hated seeing Maka in pain.

Especially when he could have prevented it.

He was a death scythe.

He was supposed to be stronger now.

They shouldn't have been cocky—they shouldn't have underestimated what they thought was just a simple soul that had strayed from the path of humanity.

Feelings of guilt made his chest ache. He had small injuries of his own, but he didn't even notice the small aches and pains of bruises. She was worse off than him. That's all that mattered. She would probably have nasty scars after the wounds healed. And some day maybe he would lift up his shirt and say "we match". And maybe she would smile and lift up hers slightly as well.

But if he wasn't careful _now_, there might not be a maybe. Her injuries weren't life-threatening, but only if they were cleaned and dressed.

A little over halfway there.

His arms were tired, his heavy steps causing Maka to bounce around. Every step earned a small groan of discomfort from the meister. She was barely awake. Soul tried his best to keep her conscious with conversation. About everything from repeatedly telling her not to fall asleep to about what they should cook for dinner next week. But the conversation always eventually turned back to one topic.

"It _h-hurts_, Soul."

She wasn't able to hold back her tears anymore; they were flowing freely down her cheeks, mixing in with the blood in grime covering her face. She had bit her lip hard enough to draw blood, a thin stream dripping off her chin and onto her white jacket. The blue sailor flaps in the back had been torn beyond repair; she would need yet another Spartoi uniform made. Her black tights where ripped in many places, along with her mud-covered blue skirt. One side of her pigtails was halfway out of it's skull-shaped hair clip, the ash blonde strands tickling her neck. Her bangs were stuck to her forehead with sweat. The meister's green eyes were still hidden beneath her eyelids, scrunched up in agony. She had been doing her best to cling to her weapon partner's beige jacket; she needed something to hold onto for comfort.

"Soul... Are we t-there yet?"

The death scythe hadn't heard such pain in his meister's voice in a long time.

It wasn't often that Soul had the feeling of disgust at eating a soul that his wielder had reaped. If it were possible, he would most likely regurgitate the soul right at that moment.

Had other weapons ever felt that way?

Was there ever a time where Tsubaki wished to reject a soul that Black Star had taken? (On the rare occasion that it happened of course)

Did Liz or Patty or Jackie ever find the taste of a soul disgusting?

Probably not.

Weapons were so accustomed to devouring souls. To them, eating a soul that belonged to someone that injured their meister might be even more satisfying.

Soul "Eater" Evans was different, he guessed.

Maka suddenly gave a muffled groan, her wounds stinging badly.

"C'mon, Maka. You're strong. You can do this."

"I-I know..." She clutched her ripped side, attempting to further stop the bleeding, staining her white gloves crimson.

The complex finally came into view as Soul continued to jog uphill. The journey up the stairs was excruciating. So was unlocking the door; him holding Maka with one hand while fiddling with the lock and key in the other.

Inside the small apartment Blair was nowhere to be found, probably out working. And as Soul laid Maka across the small couch he really wished he had the assistance of that damn, magic cat. He sat his meister up enough to remove be tattered coat, revealing a just as tattered white shirt and tie underneath.

Now came the embarrassing part.

As he slowly unbuttoned and peeled away the tattered remains of her shirt, he was sure his blush spread across his entire face. Maka was in too much pain to feel uncomfortable or embarrassed; she was just grateful that she had Soul to take care if her.

Her skirt and tights soon followed. Now only clad in her underwear, the death scythe picked up his meister and carried her to the small bathroom they shared.

"I-I think I can... Sit up." Maka still had her hand at her side, the pain of her wounds still sharp.

Although Soul felt uneasy, he gently sat her up in front of the wooden cabinets beneath the sink. Turning the water on, he plugged up the tub and stood back to let it fill up. He shed his Spartoi jacket; unbuttoning the cuffs and rolling up the sleeves. He removed his tie, as not to get it wet. He looked back to his meister, still breathing heavily, still clad only in her undergarments. He leaned down and freed the rest of her hair from it's pigtails; worried that they might give her a headache. She smiled at him weakly. He smirked back.

She would be okay.

Soul turned the knobs above the faucet off, the tub halfway full. Leaning down, he scooped up Maka's petite form and slowly lowered her into the water. She gasped and cringed at the stinging sensation. But after a moment the water begun to feel almost soothing. The weapon dipped a washcloth into the water and gently began to rub the dried blood from the edges of her wounds. Maka had enough strength to wash away a bit of the grime and blood from her arms. He gently wiped at her face, scrubbing away dirt, blood, and dried tears.

After scrubbing most of the excess grime away, Soul left briefly to retrieve items from the cabinet under the sink. He soon returned to her side with gauze pads and a large, brown bottle of hydrogen peroxide. He couldn't help but laugh slightlt at her reaction. Her weak face scrunched up in mild disgust, knowing that the strong liquid would cause some discomfort. His strong little meister could kill the Kishin but couldn't even bear the sight of a bottle of chemicals.

Soul soaked one of the pads in the lowuid and pressed it to one of the gashes. Maka bit her lip as the chemical bubbled and fizzed against her flesh. Remembering a remedy from his childhood, Soul lightly blew on the cut, relieving some of his meister's discomfort.

He repeated the process three more times before moving on to the minor cuts and scrapes marring her legs and arms. Maka had taken to leaning against the back of the tub, trying to relax. Her eyes were closed as Soul ran a pad over the cut on her forehead, not really caring about the stinging anymore. He then gently scrubbed the blood and grime from her hair, careful of the cut on her forehead.

Soul turned around as she removed her undergarments to finish washing herself. When he turned back around she was struggling out of the tub, clutching a towel around herself. After helping her from the tub, he brushed used another towel to dry her hair.

They sometimes wondered how they could do these things together so often and still keep their relationship so platonic. Or was it even completely platonic?

Maka was able to retrieve new undergarments and put them on while Soul fetched a large t-shirt of his for her to sleep in; loose-fitting clothing probably the most comfortable.

He also returned with bandages; wrapping up her midriff and applying small band-aids wherever needed. Maka laughed weakly at the amount of sticky bandages that covered her legs and arms.

Soul laughed too.

The weapon pushed the large, yellow t-shirt over her head, a large EAT emblem resting across her chest. He helped her lay down on her bed, pulling the pink covers over her. But instead of leaving, he pulled her desk chair up beside the bed, holding her hand while stroking her now-dry hair with his free one.

Maka sighed, her pain eased more now that her injuries were clean and covered.

"Thanks so much..."

"You know it's no trouble. We're partners, after all."

And with that he performed a gesture he reserved only for such occasions. He leaned down, brushed back her bangs, and lightly pressed his lips to her forehead in a kiss. The meister smiled, content. Soul took better care of her than her old rotten Papa. And Maka always took better are of him than his family ever did.

As long as they had each other, they didn't need a family.

* * *

And as Soul predicted, after Maka's wounds had healed, they had lifted up their shirts, showing their scars, and declared that they "matched". Maka had smiled back, but with tears shining in her eyes.


End file.
